Are you called a butler if you don't get paid?

               My sister, niece and niece’s boyfriend were here for vacation last week.  My Daddy couldn’t fit it into his busy schedule to accompany us on our trip south, so we had to make it to LA and back bereft of the stimulating conversation that he would surely have provided.  He wasn’t far from our minds however, when on our trip back, we noticed the most wonderful sight in the world.  It was a walmart.com delivery truck.  The wording on the side said that they delivered groceries to your home.  Have more beautiful words ever been spoken?  If I could just go online and click all the things I (read my father) need from The Wal-Mart I would never have to have my passport stamped Little Guatemala again.  It’s not that I mind being around those for whom Spanish is their only language, it’s more the crowded street market feel of the whole experience that does not meet my expectations for a fun-filled Saturday morning.  If I were a betting man I would give you ridiculous odds that there are in fact live goats and chickens tethered in the regions of the store into which I fear to tread, notably the “Home and Garden” and “Sporting Goods” sections.  Several years ago I found, to my dismay that the H&G section was more garden than home, so I have not returned. 

                As the parent of exactly zero real children (lest we not forget the imaginary Kinley) I keep forgetting that a vacation with a teenaged girl is not so much a family outing as it is a trip with her highness and the three wait staff who cater to her every whim.  Now I personally have no memory of my parents ever asking me what I wanted to do, however this new generation (the dreaded Millenials) don’t wait for an opinion to be requested, they offer theirs up with greater frequency than a Kardashian plans a new reality show or a marriage.  Typically, growing up, we didn’t so much take a vacation than spend the summer at my Grandparent’s farm or after my grandfather’s death, my aunt and uncle’s ranch of sorts.  All I remember is spending every summer surrounded by the flora and fauna typically found in East Texas which included cows and poison ivy based on the disasters that befell me each sojourn.  I guess I should also include horses as I have spent more than 8 seconds on one.  I won’t regale you with specifics.  Suffice it to say that I haven’t willingly gotten back on the horse since.  Note I said willingly.  I have been on a horse since although it was not by choice.  Again, not sure if it’s this new generation or not but I don’t remember ever, not even once, being asked would you like to (insert horrifying proposition here).  Things as random as “camp out on an abandoned flatbed trailer and sleep directly on poison ivy because you hadn’t begun the studying cub scout guide for indigenous plant life” or “ride in the Grand Entry of a rodeo even though you have squat experience and if horses can sense fear, yours is aware of the terror-filled youth in ill-fitting denim sitting in a quasi-sidesaddle position as one foot got stuck in the wrong stirrup and the chubbiness of the legs and agility of the youth did not allow for proper or speedy correction”.  Granted they didn’t go into that much detail, I’m assuming, because no one in Texas would have imagined someone could do those things outside of a 1930s screwball comedy starring Myrna Loy or Rosalind Russell.  At least they had the excuse of being snooty society types from “the Manor” whereas I was not a society type unless you count 4-H as a society.  You’ll notice I declined to discuss the manor from whence I came.  You’ll notice the declination is still in effect.  I thank you for your cooperation.

                After we trailed behind Payton and her long-suffering boyfriend Chad, paying and offering trivia as we went (one of the costs of Uncle Dusty’s financial support is the required interest (feigned or otherwise) in whatever manner of infotainment tidbit decides to present itself to all gathered.  Sometimes Uncle Dusty himself is surprised by the (admittedly) fascinating anecdotes), we made our way ever northward from Anaheim to LA to Santa Monica and finally back to Menlo Park our home base where we returned to the reality that whenever left to his own devices, my father will attempt to batter and fry the entirety of the contents of my home.  There was a thick layer of country wafting through the air.  For the uninitiated, country is a euphemism for grease, smoke and flour; the least health conscious Yankee Candle scent ever.

                Such is the vacation for this year.  Now, I am familiar with the idea of a stay-cation where you’re just off work but stay near or at home.  But I’m not sure what to call what my family did.  Was it a poor-cation?  Country-cation?  Not to be confused with countrification which is what my Daddy is trying to do to me.  Whatever you called it we would travel to a relative’s home and like houseguests in Downton Abbey days, we’d stay at least a fortnight, if not a fortnight squared.  Sleeping 8 kids to a pallet in the living room floor.  Trying to stay quiet lest you be beaten into submission; stifling giggles that were persistent only because we weren’t supposed to giggle; never rooted in anything actually humorous. 

Payton has never known the joys of floor sleeping, her vacations always involve an upgraded suite at a Marriott as my guv’ment job affords travel point accumulation at a rate far above my income level, y’all.  Left to my own dollars spent, I would be platinum only at Motel 6 or at the very least Super 8, who probably base their levels of appreciation for patrons on something like lunch meats.  If that were true, I’d like to think I’d be black forest ham, hand sliced in the deli.  Truth be told I’m so cheap when it comes to spending on myself I’d probably be clearance priced hogshead cheese.

                We trailed behind Her Highness who, like other members of the royal family, does not carry cash.  Although she has more purses, bags both messenger and hobo and wristlets than a shoplifting ingénue, she never seems to carry anything on her person that would cause her to have access to necessities such as sunglasses, lip balm, snacks.  Her mother is there for that with her giant bag.  We’re like a double Butler system sponsored by Coach.  We’ve butled (?) throughout many ports of call, New Orleans, Colorado, LA, San Francisco, Hawaii, and New England.  She has stated the desire to go to Minneapolis and the Mall of America, but I feel that I, or at the very least, my wallet wouldn’t survive that particular destination, intrepid though I may seem.

                Trying to be the host with the most and attempting to cater to all whims, both ridiculous and carb-heavy, I juggled all house guests (including permanent ones) like the over-caffeinated clown we saw at Pier 39 on the Bay.  Remember that I hate clowns?  Well I really, really hated this one and not just because he thought that his seersucker pants were “ridiculous”.  It was almost enough to keep me from enjoying the bag of mini donuts that I had to myself for approximately 3.2 seconds before it was descended upon my Her Highness, who had become hungered as apparently posing for a caricature is hard work, y’all.  She shared my pilfered treats with Chad who was ravenous as I suppose mooning over a 6’ tall 25 year-old looking but 16 year-old acting young lady is also hard work.  Kids these days don’t know a thing about real work, said my inner old lady. 

                Of course, there are those in the Boomer generation who reside in my home who feel they should be rewarded for waking up and mass producing afghans at a rate that is the envy of the Japanese auto industry with a chocolate shake ‘this big’, moving his hands about three feet apart.  So, I guess it’s not a Millenial thing; it’s a thing for people who are used to being waited on hand and foot.  And that’s where this lovely Wal-Mart idea will come into play.  I can give my Daddy his heart’s desire, well, those desires that reside within The Mart which, truth be told, covers everything on his list except Harley Davidson motorcycles.  And I never have to leave the comfort of my home.  Now I just have to convince them yarn is a foodstuff.

               

This time I was late

                For the first time in quite a few years I am with my Daddy on Father’s Day.  I have always called him and sent him a gift but it’s the first time since probably college where he and I are staring at each other on the exact date.  Staring at each other in a good way…I suppose.  It’s more a testament to our confusion over shared genes than an actual competition although he would win by utilizing the time honored weapon known as “pull my finger”.  Knowing full well a refusal to approach much less yank the digit in question will in no way impede the intended result.  And sitting on my almost non-existent butt with my oddly short legs swaying in the breeze, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt I am he but with cuter clothes, computer skills and an aversion to eating protein in can form.

                While I’m on the subject of fathers, I want to point out that my spelling of Daddy and the actual pronunciation are quite different.  Some of my non-Southern readers have interpreted Daddy to sound somewhat like an anxious British child wondering why “Mummy and Daddy are missing”.  I pronounce it, along with many of Southern brethren and sisthren (is that right?) as Deh-Dee.  Well, at least those of us who still say Daddy.  I know it makes me seem a bit more Blanche Deveraux than I’d like to admit, but it’s just how I am.  My Mother referred to her Daddy as Daddy and so shall I.

                This day coupled with the fact that tomorrow would have been my parents’ 47^th wedding anniversary (for those that don’t know, my mother died in 2000) has put in mind of the things for which I am grateful in relation to my family and my life.  I used to think and say that I wish I had grown up in different circumstances, financial, geographical and otherwise.  However, I know now that I am glad that the things happened as they did for a reason.  I would not be the person I am if my life had been any different.  For a long time I wished I had grown up in an urban area as opposed to varies boonies throughout the South, but as an adult I truly appreciate the rural nature of my upbringing.  It has given me a foundation of civility and simplicity that seems down-right quaint in comparison to today’s skank-filled society.  Drugs and pornography were not even on our radar; alcohol was easily with reach, seeing as how Walthall County, although a dry county, was within inches of Louisiana, a state always on the cutting edge of sketchy behavior.   And although my peers imbibed from time to time it wasn’t as if we planned our social life around it.  You’re welcome for this revisionist history ladies and (one) gentleman. 

                As is typical for small town boys, most of my friends were girls.  I’ve always found them to be more interesting, fun and clean.  Their activities, while sometimes odd and uninteresting to me, were at least indoors, where I was determined to be.  It wasn’t as if I were opposed to the outdoors.  Full disclosure:  I was opposed to the outdoors. I attended my fair share of pasture parties and soirees at the river, but it was more for a sense of camaraderie than any zeal for nature.  And by camaraderie I mean popularity, peripheral or otherwise.  While I was usually well-liked I have never been cool by anyone’s definition.  I tried to make up for my natural uniqueness by being funny.  And for this talent I look to my father.  While my mother had many wonderful traits and was humorous, my Daddy was the comedian in that marriage, in the broadest definition of that word.  He found himself peerlessly hilarious; we often found no humor in what he was saying, usually because we were horrified or embarrassed for the repetition.  At what age can you hear the phrase, “fine as frog hair” in response to someone’s inquiry into his well-being and actually laugh and/or not feel instant shame?  Apparently age 12, as this phrase has caused internal groans and external reddening of the face since near ‘bout 19 and 82. 

                One of my father’s unusual traits I have recently discovered is his need to put a time to every action.  For example, a week or so ago he was complaining that he forgot to charge his cell phone and he was about to go to sleep.  I inquired as to why he would need his phone during slumber as he doesn’t often  use it while awake and he said, “I need it to tell the time during the night.”  As it was also my bedtime (I feel old, y’all), I refrained from continuing the conversation lest he not get the 11 hours of beauty sleep he most assuredly needs.  The next morning I discovered the reason for his complaint.  He proceeded to tell me each and every time he woke up throughout the night and what time he arose to start the morning.  Apparently, “I got up 4 times to pee” is not scintillating enough conversation.  He feels that I would do well with more detail.  “I got up at 1:43, 2:18, 3:36 and 4:27 to pee” is more detail than I need to start my day off adequately.  Sadly, dear readers, caffeine is not what wakes me up.  Along with the punctuality of his emissions, I am also privy to the exact time (3:44) that his a-double-s started hurting and he had to move himself to his bed.  This is followed by the persact (my family’s inventive synonym for “exact”) moment (5:11) that his side began to bother him requiring a return to his trusty recliner.  Without his phone, his stories would be down-right boring.  Smell that?  That’s sarcasm.

                Even though we had celebrated with a Father’s Day dinner the night before, as I had a full day with church, brunch and heading to San Jose to greet the attendees for my training conference this week, he somehow finagled a BBQ as well.  At 2:34 we fired up the grill (yes I have a grill) and at 2:37 he wanted to know exactly what was taking “them dad-burn pork chops so long?  I could cook them faster with a stick and a match.”  At 2:38 I said, “Look here old man, shut it and wait; you’re the farthest thing from starving I’ve met in a long time.”  Actually, that was in my head.  What I said out loud was, “They’ll be done in a minute.  Go get your kool-aid and check your blood sugar.”  That was at 2:40.  See how much more interesting this story is with the times inserted?              

I knew I liked the Golden Girls, but...

             As I suspected, my father, never one to suffer in silence has been milking his fall like a dairy farmer, y’all.  His rants are usually forlorn and punctuated only by heavy sighs and head nods.  Well, let me tell you, today he was in rare form.  He got irritated at Lord only knows what, probably when I refused to buy his diabetic self a cupcake, and he began to loudly protest the pain and suffering he was experiencing and while I didn’t quite understand everything he was saying I can attest to the fact that I have never heard a-double-s used so many times in a 5 minute period.  I liken it to the number of times Al Pacino says the f-word in Scarface.  For those who haven’t watched that family-friendly flick, let me just say it was a LOT.

                Now I don’t know if my father became so adept at cursing once he began working off-shore or if he entered marriage with my mother pre-packaged with a filthy mouth.  Throughout my life he has taken his cursing to a Master level.  If there was a certification in potty mouth, I can assure you he could serve on the curriculum team, do you hear me?  Of course I have cursed in my day but usually only in the most trying of circumstances like when an inanimate object won’t do what I want it to do, like stupid socks, an uncooperative umbrella or that irritating napkin that REFUSES to remain covering the dish in the microwave while it rotates ever so slowly.  I also dislike people who can’t drive, which includes most everyone on the road except me and the relative few of you who can navigate our nation’s highways and bi-ways.  What is a bi-way, I wonder?

                And, honestly, one cannot live in a curse-filled household (although my Mother remained above the fray) and it not affect your speech.  I did pretty well with no cursing until I was in college and, just like eating potato chips, once you start it’s hard to stop.  Now, I don’t curse at work and I definitely don’t at church and I don’t typically in public, but boy howdy I sure do when I’m alone and I get irritated.  And I try to keep it under control but like my best friend Christopher says, “Screaming ‘strawberry’ doesn’t have the same satisfying effect.”

                Am I proud of this?  Absolutely not.  Am I working on fixing this?  Absolutely.  Have I been successful?  Depends on your frame of reference for success.  I have tried substituting different words and phrases for some of the more foul sayings in my verbal arsenal but that often leads to confusion for those around me.  Hearing someone say, in a loud annoyed voice, “Brenda Fricker!” is cause for concern.  The full statement, depending on the level of irritation at the person, place or thing, “Brenda Fricker won an Oscar for My Left Foot!” makes no sense to anyone other than Oscar trivia buffs and, including me, which consists of about 3 people.  And even they would wonder why I am so passionate about an actress that no one remembers, if they ever knew her to begin with.  I have learned to wear my ID photo badge on my nightly walks around the hospital grounds lest anyone suspect I have managed to escape from the locked ward.  I also ensure that I have rid myself of the pastel chinos prior to these walks as well.  No need to add fuel to that fire, am I right?

                I was discussing my new thrift store finds today with my management team.  We had an off-site retreat and, wanting to set the right tone for an informal gathering that would generate ideas, I chose to wear and multi-colored-striped button down and white chinos with matching navy suede belt and wingtips.  I have been told that my three-piece suits with coordinated tie and pocket square were intimidating to some and I wanted to take a much more casual approach for this particular session.  During the course of the day, I was speaking to them about the unique situations you encounter when you supervise people. 

There are 3 staff members who have recently been promoted to management positions and their co-workers have been treating them differently.  I said, “You have to develop a thick skin (in leadership roles) because people will invariably talk about you.  I have a very thick skin; I couldn’t dress this way and expect to not have people question everything from my political leanings to the state of my soul.”  One reason I love living in Menlo Park is that no one bats an eye when I wear my outfits as the majority of the denizens of this fair burg are wealthy older people and the women love my ensembles; odds are the shirts and pants belonged to their dear departed husbands.  I have been hugged on several occasions by exquisitely-coiffed, teeny tiny ladies who tell me how “adorable” I look.  If you’ll pardon the poor grammar, I loves me some older ladies, y’all.

I just decided that I may need to start looking to this older group for dating and possible marriage.  As someone who is uncomfortable talking about, much less contemplating, “relations” with anyone, I feel pretty good about the odds of finding someone who shares my love of seersucker and doesn’t want to degrade themselves (or me) in the boudoir, if you’re picking up what I’m throwing down.  I have it on good authority that many women would love a husband who would voluntarily take them shopping, understands the need for multiple pairs of black shoes and doesn’t want to “mess with” them. 

Also, no awkward first dates.  Really, no dates at all.  Getting them coffee before the church service one Sunday could count as second base.  I’ll be like Truman Capote, when he escorted all those society ladies in New York.  Eww, wait.  Okay, NOT, Truman Capote.  I know, I’ll be like Bernie from the movie “Bernie” except I wouldn’t shoot Shirley MacClaine; I’d just give her extra wine and put her to sleep. 

This might actually work.  Look at the things I have in common with this particular crowd.  I go to bed at 10, get up at 6, like to eat dinner around 5:30, hate to wait in line for anything, think most young people are disrespectful, am very conservative in my dress and have always been partial to Lincoln Town Cars.  Plus, I make a “mean” pone of cornbread, always have a can of cream of mushroom soup in the pantry, hate most TV shows because they are filthy, watched “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel” on purpose and am always cold.

Well, this wasn’t the outcome I was expecting.  I mean, I don’t mind being an old soul; I just assumed I would be an old man.

Isn't this a Tom T. Hall song?

             At 4:45 the other morning I awoke to such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.  Then noise seemed to involve wood, ceramic and metal.  I was soon to discover it also included denim and whatever material constitutes a tractor supply hat.  My Daddy had fallen; like a Redwood in the forest, except with more cursing and shame.  This couldn’t have come at a worse time as when I awoke I realized I had been sleeping on my right arm; it was numb and I couldn’t move it.  I am a typically conservative sleeper.  Until my significant weight loss, I used a CPAP machine to help me breathe and had to learn to sleep (1) on my back and (2) without moving.  Making my bed in the morning is not an exhaustive task.  My sister has said it's slightly creepy how I don't move; like a dead person.  However, for the past month or so I have been tossing and turning  like Bobby Lewis.  Some of you will get that joke; others will need to ask their parents.

                Anyway, I rush into my Daddy’s bedroom and see him on the floor, having somehow taken the entire contents of his bookshelf full of crochet yarn and the top of his dresser except for the TV, thank goodness.  When I attempted to help him up he insisted that he could get himself up and lurched away from my one good arm and proceeded to get up on one knee and summarily collapse onto the floor, emitting more curse words than a truck stop waitress who has “been done wrong” by some no-good trucker with a double name. 

                Trying to help him with the good arm, while flapping my other arm around to get the circulation flowing and him wiggling all over the floor threw Lulu into a state of confusion and happiness as she bounded from her doggie bed wanting to play.  Have you ever tried to help lift an overweight man who is trying to fight you using your one good arm and fending off the dog?  No, Dustin, just you.  And while it may be funny now, it was most assuredly not funny then.  Well, except maybe to Lulu.  If she could talk, I can only imagine what she would say.  Probably, “I’m hungry!” “Please pet me!” “Squirrel!”  “You’re Awesome!” and/or “The old fat one sleeps a lot, what breed is he?” although not necessarily in that order.

                I felt bad about him falling and I know that older people can break things when they do fall.  He complains about aches and pains nonstop so I knew I could look forward to an uptick in the woe-is-me-ing later that night and especially the next day and the day after that.  As someone who knows (somewhat) the pain of working out, I can tell you the next day is not as bad as the day after that.  And although his falling and my working out are not the same, they both involve sweating and someone on the floor cursing.  And they are both usually followed by someone regaling all and sundry with the specifics of the incident and detailing the aches and pains long after interest has waned and the even the memory of the pain has subsided.  Full disclosure:  I did kick boxing for about 5 months (from October 2009-February 2010).  I still talk about it.  Yes, Virginia, I see the irony.   

                Of course, he is still talking about the fall and the aches and pains and it’s been like a week and a half.  His toe hurts, his ankle hurts, both knees hurt, his ribs/thigh/shoulder/lungs/kidney/uterus hurt.  Ok, that last one I may have misunderstood, but you get my drift.  This is in addition to his typical refrain of “my back, a double s and neck hurt”.  When I ask if he has taken a pain pill, for which he has a prescription, he always says, “Nah.  It’s not THAT bad yet.”  Really?  To hear him you would think his pain was mind-numbing.  He has likened it to child birth.  He has actually said, “On a scale of 1 to 10, this is a 25”, but in his estimation it is not enough to take a pill.  Get over yourself old man. 

What do you think is going to happen?  Just because more than your fair share of relatives (on the Thompson side) have become pill addicts doesn’t mean you will.  I am hardcore anti-drug but even I’ve started acting like the sketchy best friend in a coming of age movie saying things like, “Come on man, it’s no big deal.  It’s just the one pill.”  I have even resorted to just getting one out and putting it in his hand and giving him a bottle of water.  No questions, no judgments.  Just like one of those meetings you see on TV where you tell your name and your addiction.  They don’t have one for thrift store shopping; I checked.  They should have one for gossiping (or fellowshipping depending on your denomination), but those kind of meetings usually take place in church and although we’d talk about how we feel guilty talking about people, we’d end up talking about people while describing why we felt we had to and it would be sort of a breaking even situation and nobody wants that.  Not even for really good chess pie.  Ok, maybe for really, really good chess pie.

                And although he is prone to exaggeration, I really do think he is “stove up” a little as he has turned down the last two invitations to breakfast at Jason’s, his favorite place, as well as the latest trip to Wal-Mart leaving me to navigate the waters of Little Guatemala, mano-a-nada.  Como se dice, ‘Alone’?  I felt like the hero in an action film who has been abandoned at the gates of the castle/den of thieves/cave, on a mission from some hard to please despot who requires things I wouldn’t normally buy like yarn, XXL underwear, Stetson cologne and denture adhesive.  I can only imagine what people were thinking when they looked into my cart.  I used to say buggy but that can be shamed out of you by New Englanders who call them carriages. 

                What?  You mean you don’t look in other people’s carts, scoping out their items and using what you see to parse out their back story?  No, Dustin, just you.  I guess it is true what my mother always said, “Just because you’re talking about people doesn’t mean they are talking about you.”

                Well said, nomadic Southern Baptist.  Well said indeed.

Fat Rednecks and Gangstas: Style Cousins?

               It has happened.  I have crowned myself America’s Next Diet Guru without the need for an exhausting reality program hosted by someone of questionable British heritage.  The evidence, you ask?  I present, for discussion, my Daddy and his 40 pound weight loss (since September 2011).  I have dragged him kicking and screaming toward physical health.  Well, his version of kicking and screaming which is more pouting and angry looks as he is often tired and willfully quasi-ambulatory. 

                I discovered the exact degree of weight loss (39 pounds 11 ounces) when he entered the dining room this morning and asked, “How is it that I’ve lost 40 pounds and I’m wearing the same dad-blasted pair of pants?”  He did not like my answer of, “Those pants have been, and remain, too small.  Belt buckles should sit at your waist, not the middle of your thigh.”

                Men of his generation, the offspring of those called “The Greatest” by Tom Brokaw, are an interesting group, I will say.  Now I’m not sure if this is a Southern thing or not, but all I know is that most of the men I knew growing up in the South begin in high school a lifelong relationship with the same waist size of pant, regardless of issues of proper fit.  Baby Boomer is the name for their generation and although it probably wasn’t a term created to correspond with the alarming rate of waist expansion, the moniker is more than apt, wouldn’t you agree.  I was going to say ample, but there’s no need to be rude.

                It strikes me as humorous that my father’s pants have slowly slid ever toward his knees like a child who has been instructed to clean the yard; a slow, meandering walk, gradually easing toward the intended destination, which I can only assume, is around the ankles and these people spend an inordinate amount of time in bathroom.  I have never known him to be a fashion pioneer but he and his meaty brethren have been (grammatically more accurate) bursting a sag since, at the very least, October 1970 AD, translated ‘After Dustin’.  I know there are those who will say it’s actually Anno Domini or something else Latin, but my interpretation makes more sense, n’est-ce pas?

                Due to the reduction in the protuberance subjecting the upper portion of his lower torso to extreme shade, his pants are now somewhere in the, medically inaccurate, upper-middle-thigh area.  This is just low enough to cause concern but high enough to lessen the likelihood of a glimpse of ‘welder crack’, as he has never plumbed to any degree.  The citizenry of the South San Francisco Bay Area are appreciative, whether they know it or not.  I am accustomed to working behind the scenes, trying to make the world a more pleasant place one person at a time.  Your silence reeks of gratitude dear readers.  You are most welcome.

                If you know anything about me you know that once my father proclaimed his weight loss, I immediately began to deconstruct each section of his person to see if anything else had changed.  Other than the wearing of the new shirts I bought him to replace the ones that were somehow misplaced in an incident in the laundry room that, as it was un-witnessed by anyone except myself and Lulu, shall remain a mystery, he has maintained his “look” as it were.  Throughout my life I have noticed that his stomach had increased at a rate equal to the disappearance of his buttocks.  I did not notice any change in his lack of posterior.  Full disclosure, I try to avoid eye contact with that particular part of anyone’s anatomy prior to my morning coffee.  I prefer my wake-up to include only caffeinated beverages. 

Now, I am no physician, but having worked in the healthcare field more than a decade and as I am hyper-observant to the point of criticality, I can say that most men of this generation are equally disproportionate.  As it is in all real estate transactions, location is king.  And it seems that their buttocks, tired of the view, have migrated en masse, to a better spot.  I suppose the betterness of the spot is an opinion to be validated by someone else interested in the anatomy and physiology of “old men parts”.  I would have said this would include their female counterparts, but I have been assured on more than one occasion by the alumnae of my alma mater, Mississippi University for Women, that this is simply not true.  As I am a student of criticism, not anthropology, I will leave this academic discourse to others.  I do know that I have seen much more old man crack, plumber or otherwise, than I have ever wanted or imagined; mostly within what I used to consider the relative safety of my own home.

                On a positive note, the weight loss has afforded an improvement in his diabetes, or The Sugar as it is known is the countrier of circles.  His blood sugar is relatively under control.  I say relatively as his scores are better than his siblings, for whom gravy is still a beverage.  He has said on a number of occasions, usually in the throes of some dramatic invitation to one of his patented pity parties, RSVP not required, “You know tha sugah is gonna take my feet.”  I typically do not engage when this is presented as a topic of conversation because I, and he, have grown tired of my constant refrain of “carbohydrates are as harmful to your body as sugar.”  His practiced inability to retain this information causes me much frustration.  Each time we discuss the fact that crackers, bread, potatoes, rice, etc. are all carbohydrates he feigns confusion as if he expects to go to bargain market and find a box emblazoned with the word ‘CARBS’.  His avoidance of this particularly labeled box should allow him carte blanche when it comes to eating a meal containing pasta, potatoes, bread with crackers as a vegetable.

                By simply creating pre-portioned meals that give him what he wants in moderation and forbidding the purchase of items such as soda, ice cream and chips, he has unwillingly lost the afore-mentioned “near ‘bout 40” pounds.  Helping him choose cottage cheese and fruit over Peanut Butter Snickers is also a way to remind myself to consume a more healthy diet, as I must eat by example.  He has not cottoned to sharing my love of salmon and Mediterranean food, but he has agreed to mashed cauliflower as a substitute, sometimes, for mashed potatoes and he will infrequently allow “hippie hamburger” in his meatloaf or breakfast omelets.  The rest of society refers to it as ground turkey.

                I predict that he will be able to reasonably fit into his current clothes once he loses about 25 more pounds.  Only at that point might he be at the appropriate weight to for a 44x27 carpenter jean; his pant of choice.  Yes, you read that correctly.  With my measurements of 36x29, I am the Heidi Klum to his Melissa McCarthy.   

                As Dr. Phil is unequivocally larger than I and has several weight loss products on the market, I feel that it would be acceptable for me to launch a second career.  I could call my guidebook; the “Shrinking Redneck Population” to trick unsuspecting Yankees into buying what they are hoping is a sociology treatise.  Of course, I would expect each of you, dear readers, to purchase a copy yourselves, along with the first in my Southern mystery series, A Gone Pecan.  Get thee to Amazon.com or Authorhouse.com post haste as my last quarterly royalty statement would not have allowed a foray onto the McDonald’s Dollar Menu, a phrase that has just caused grievous injury to my psyche as it escaped my fingers to land on this figurative page.

                If I have an existential crisis, you have no one to blame but yourselves.  Other than my father, of course. 

If a Redneck LOL's, does it make a noise?

                I’ve just finished reading Drop Dead Healthy, the latest memoir of sorts by one of my favorite authors, AJ Jacobs.  I am a lover of all things non-fiction and Mr. Jacobs has documented all manner of activities in his life, like reading the entire Encyclopedia Britannica in a year or literally living the Old Testament for a year.  DDH is about his quest for bodily perfection.  In it he talks about androstenone, which causes people to not be able to smell things like sweat, urine and pig spit.  That this could apply to my father should come as no surprise as the man does enjoy his Vienna sausages or as he calls them, “vie-eenie weenies”.  They seem to be no more than potted meat in the shape of a tube.  Not appealing in any manner or circumstance up to and including a plane crash in the Andes Mountains.  I’d rather eat a soccer player.  Well, not really, but you get my point.

  The revelation there is the possibility of an ounce of truth in all my Daddy’s protestations of “I cain’t smell what you say you smell” caught me by surprise.  He might truly be biologically incapable of actually identifying the funk that is him.  As it is a complex aroma, part sweat, part flatulence residue and part old man smell, it has caused me much grief and has been the main source of friction betwixt us since he moved in. 

                This is not the only reason I bring up the book.  Another issue that sprang to mind whilst I was reading is this:  Mr. Jacobs is a witty writer, an enjoyable writer, a writer of great talent.  He is not however, an author who causes me to “LMAO”, otherwise known as laughing my a-crooked letter-crooked letter off. (If you don’t get that joke, I’m to assume you never spelled Mississippi as a child).  No offense to Timothy Ferriss, who praised him on the book jacket.  First of all, what’s with all the vulgarity being thrown about with abandon?  I weep for our future people.  Weep. 

Don’t get me wrong, AJ, as I would like to call him should we ever meet, is vastly entertaining.  When I read his books, and this is the fourth one I’ve read, I am enthralled, educated and happy.  I do not, however, LOL.  Not once.  And that means laugh out loud, not lots of love as my best friend Christopher’s mother originally thought.  Full disclosure:  we discovered she thought LOL meant lots of love when she made some random comment about the ethnicity of Christopher’s fiancé and threw in a few “hell fire and brimstones” and ended the statement with LOL.  Now I’ve known some judgmental Evangelicals in my time, but that was a little too far into Fred Phelps territory for my comfort and I asked Christopher just what was up with his Pentecostal mama.   As he did not know, he asked her what exactly she meant by her use of the phrase.  I think it might be a generational thing because I asked my Daddy what LOL would mean to him and he said lot of love, too. 

                And I’m not trying to say I have never LOL’d.  However, I have only LOL’d when reading a very few select people’s work.  John Kennedy Toole, Tina Fey and Wanda Sykes are a tiny minority of writers who make me LOL. I have also not LMAO’d and I don’t know anyone outside of possibly from fraternity brothers in the throes of post-finals celebrations who have actually ROFLMAO.  That, as you may know is rolling on the floor, LMAOing.  Nothing in the history of mankind except possibly Eddie Izzard (in his Dress to Kill concert), Robin Williams doing stand-up in the late 80s or Kevin Hart is that funny.  Dane Cook not that funny.  Amy Schumer is not that funny.  LOL funny?  Sure.  ROFLMAO funny?  No.

                But what are we to say when we find ourselves in the throes of a reaction that needs to be documented?  In order to educate as well as entertain (in the mold of Mr. Jacobs himself) I have decided to create a new language to cover the bases of the reactions I have had whilst reading, Facebooking, etc.  Use it as you see fit.

                GAB – (pronounced like you’d think) giggle a bit.

                SAL – (ditto) smile a lot.

                OMIA/OMID (ditto) open mouth in anger or disgust.

                AEBIS/AEBII – (ditto) arch eyebrows in surprise or interest.

                SHIW/SHIS – (ditto) shake head in wonder or sadness.  Usually follows OMIA/D.

                TLMHWHN – (pronounced Tulim Hewin) tight-lipped mm-hmming with head nod.

                GAWL – (pronounced like you think) gesture accusingly while laughing.  Usually at a person who you have discovered is “so (that person) it’s not funny”, which ironically is funny.

                LCASFATR – (pronounced Lucas Fatter) look condescendingly at someone from across the room.  Of course I’m referring to the theoretical room that is Facebook.

                LSHILAFSTLWRIAAAIDTPITF (no pronunciation offered) laugh so hard I look around for someone to laugh with, realize I am alone and immediately decide to post it to Facebook.  Of course, I could have inadvertently spelled the name of some obscure city in Europe.  If I have, I apologize.

                GMFHBNLMFP (ditto) got my feelings hurt because no one ‘liked’ my funny post from the LSHILAFSTLWRIAAAIDTPITF.

                So there you have it.  I hope I have established a new common language to assist you in getting your point across in cyberspace.  Now, I realize that some of the pronunciations can get in the way, but if we were being honest, how often do we really say LOL in person?  I’m hoping not at all, because if you are then that’s just sad and I will, at the very least, AEBIS and more than likely SHIS.  Just saying.

                To return the focus of this missive to my Daddy, I will say his possibly biological inability to smell certain things has also, apparently, affected his judgment in many ways especially in relation to acceptable behavior in the home.  Now I know that I am persnickety about some, okay many, things, but I truly don’t feel that it is asking too much to expect him to close the door when using the restroom.  He doesn’t, regardless of the activity being executed.  I believe the street vernacular is #1 and/or #2. 

                I also don’t feel that it is, to use his words “actin’ like Queen Elizabeth is comin’”, to require a properly closed trouser (buttoned and zipped) for any and all meals, snacks and TV viewing.  What he does when I am not home would, I feel quite sure, both alarm and unnerve me and I’d just rather be in the dark.  His level of comfort is much too close for me, if you are picking up what I’m throwing down.

                Additionally, I have made small requests in relation to meal time conversation.  I have asked that clinical details of bodily functions, fluids and various other words that begin with F be saved for his actual physician.  I do not want to know what came out of where while I am trying to enjoy my “concoctions” as he likes to call anything with which he has no familiarity which can be something as mundane as hummus and pita.  When I described the ingredients, he just stared at me.  Chickpeas “sounded weird” and tahini sounded like “somewhere rich people go for vacation”.  In my zeal to establish a frame of reference using things he understands, I ended up calling it a Mediterranean version of refried beans, which lessened my enjoyment, can I just say.

                One of my readers accused me of being too focused on my father’s flatulence and related activities and maybe I have been a little bodily-function-heavy in my postings, but I have always been told to write what I know.  And living with him the function that dare not speak its name is an almost visible addition to our little family.  I fully expect it, at some point, to take human form, not unlike Hepatitis and Urine who stand outside as if working the doors at many fine establishments in the French Quarter.

               And that's all I'm saying for now.

Fine and Dandy means something else, doesn't it?

                I’ve come to find that it’s fairly difficult to take over the world without either start-up capital or a doomsday device.  Seeing as how I have neither in any capacity (my Dad’s flatulence being dangerous but not life-threatening…yet) I am at a crossroads, dear readers.  And I’m not referencing fellow Southern icon, Ms. Spears’, movie debut.  While it was actually not so horrible as to give rise to thoughts of gouging one’s eyes out it was also not so great as to admit having seen it without the relative anonymity of great distance twixt you and me.  Sometimes Netflix runs out of options, people.  Stop judging me.  Or at least just judge me for the faux hipster outfit I’m wearing today, only 5 or so (?) years late to that particular party.  While I am not wearing intentionally nerdy glasses, I am wearing a teal cardigan, teal, navy and silver striped skinny tie, navy chinos that are almost too short and grey suede wingtips.  I thought I looked ever so cute, but when I presented myself after breakfast, my Daddy paused for moment before he continued clippity-clopping toward the door in his house shoes, his eyes awash with the possibility of gain as we were Wal-Mart bound.  That was quite the feat for someone who is more vocal with his opinions than I. 

                We were on yet another yarn run to the part of town where I’d prefer never to sojourn. My inner-Dandy is appalled I admit traveling to this mart of walls.  My inner-Redneck reminds me of the great value and mocks the Dandy’s outfit.  This is what takes place in my head. No devil and angel in me.  How pedestrian, the Dandy might say.  The Redneck would then make a joke about me never walking.  Is it any wonder I can’t concentrate on what others are saying most of the time?  I’m not self-involved, I’m merely distracted.  I accept your apology.

                Now, you know that I am not above sinking to a level of mundane from time to time, but today has taken its toll on me both psychologically and gastronomically.  After fighting the 67% of the citizenry of Guatemala that inhabit the geography around this particular shopping center who were also, apparently, needing a 6-pack of Lunchables for $5, my Dad suggested a stop at Taco Bell for an early lunch.  I assume this was his way of celebrating Cinco de Mayo.  Considering it was 10:00 AM, I thought it should have been considered a poorly chosen brunch, but since he had consumed his breakfast at 5 AM prior to taking the first of his many pre-noon naps, I figured he was probably hungry.  Having learned to chaperone him lest he feloniously consume grapes from the produce department, he had actually not eaten anything in the store other than the oxygen needed for him to punctuate his every step between the sad little greeter and the extravaganza of color and foliage that is the crafts section; the yarn sharing aisle space with the fake flowers.

                As the Dandy prepared his witty quip, he is oft much slower than I, the Redneck reminded me that I had toyed with the idea that I wanted, nay needed, to try a Dorito Loco Taco Supreme.  A taco with the shell made of Nacho Cheese Doritos.  A dish that will be served in heaven along with iced tea, fried pickles, pecan tassies and chicken minis from Chik-Fil-A.  Of course, the Redneck won, although the Dandy refused to allow me to purchase anything else off the menu.  My father chose a #11 (two bean burritos, two tacos, drink).  He can’t remember his ATM PIN or that he should change underwear  more than once a week but he can recount the Taco Bell menu, a place he has frequented exactly zero times in the last 8 months.  I just adore selective memory loss.  Don’t let him fool you; nothing gets past that man, especially sardines and pork skins.

                However, I return you to my plight, as it were. I haven’t blogged much in the past few weeks as I have been traveling the highways and byways of this fair land completing many projects for our esteemed federal government all on your tax dollar.  And I thank you.  The fried pickles and queso (not in the same meal) that I had the luxury of imbibing during my most recent visit to DC helped bookend a delightful week with my group of management trainees.  One of the duties I retained from my previous position is National Program Manager for my division’s management trainees.  There are, at present, 27 scattered across the VA system; VA being Veterans Affairs, not Virginia.  They were presenting their research projects and did a marvelous job, as they had been subjected to a patented Dustin-critique on several occasions throughout their year of data collection and analysis.   I spent the first day of the conference, where they would present to the national leadership, micro-judging everything from their jokes and wardrobe choices to their speaking skills and eye contact.  It’s almost like preparing someone for Miss America. Hyper-scrutiny is par for the course these days.  Once they make it past my micro-judgment, they are ready for anything, do you hear me?

                When they finished their presentations, they surprised me with a tribute for all my hard work and support with a thank you and listing of what they called Dustin-isms, like my brutal honesty which they described as “[he] isn’t afraid to call an ugly baby, an ugly baby.”  They also liked some frequent phrases like, “Just saying”, “I’m Awesome!” and “Nobody’s Perfect, but Jesus”.  They presented me with engraved cuff links and a business card holder that was engraved with my name and their favorite Dustin-ism, “Own It and Move On”.  This has become my career mantra because owning it and moving on is something that you just have to do when you don’t understand why something has to be done but it’s mandated and you can’t change it.  Welcome to public service, y’all. 

                Full disclosure:  I didn’t realize I used that particular phrase so much until the participants at my Procurement Training Conference in San Antonio last year created a dance move using the hand gestures I apparently use whilst repeating the phrase.  The motions are somewhat like pulling fruit off a limb above your head and then brushing it to the side. 

                I can tell you that the presentation from the trainees left me overwhelmed and, in a rare occurrence, speechless.  I admit that I teared up just a bit and had to just hug some people and have a seat.  I felt like Sally Field in the graveyard in Steel Magnolias, without the convenience of Shirley Maclaine to slap in order to laugh through the tears. 

                I said all that to say this:  I may have found a way to dominate the world after all.  I am making the world, if not better, at least a better dressed place, one management trainee class at a time.  I am helping make the federal government more efficient, friendlier and more attractive as well.  You are most assuredly welcome.  Trust me, it was more selfish than altruistic; I have to work with these people.  Cute, smart and fun trumps apathetic, double-knit swaddled and angry any day.

And nothing gives me a greater feeling than taking my “life as an art project” approach and, if not actually grooming any followers, at least making unique individuals like my inner (and outer) Dandies more acceptable through a stealth campaign with a touch more awe than actual shock.  Although most passersby, my Daddy included, don’t quite know how to react to my fuchsia chinos. I just tell myself that look is one of envy and carry on with my head held high, Diet Snapple Peach Iced Tea attached to my lips, eyebrow arched just so.

 In other words, I have owned it and moved on. 

My Daddy seems to have simply rented his delightful lunch.  That bald dude from Midnight Oil was right; sometimes the sins of the father are visited upon the son.  I hope you’ll pardon me but I have to go; my eyes are burning and I have lost the ability to structure a sentence.